


Free Once More

by nbspandam



Category: One Piece
Genre: Dehumanization, Multi, Non-Sexual Slavery, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-03-08 04:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13450755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nbspandam/pseuds/nbspandam
Summary: A collection of drabbles centered around Jean Bart in no particular order, inspired by prompts.





	1. Choose

Like any man, Jean Bart had made many choices in his life, both good and bad. But no choice he had ever done had felt as right as this one. The moment that wretched collar landed on the ground in front of him, his fate was sealed. 

The choice he made to be part of the crew commanded by Trafalgar Law is one he would never regret for the rest of his life. 


	2. Starlight

Jean appreciates the times when the submarine isn’t sailing through underwater currents, on its way from one destination to the next.  
He’s sure everyone in the crew does, really.

But, he feels that their joy to see the skies and enjoy the breeze of the sea differs from his own. They all seem to tire easily once the initial relief to be out of the submarine settles, and then go their separate ways to get things done, whether it be connected to work or play.

In his case however, he could watch the sky forever; especially at night. Seeing the starlight above lets him feel at ease, in ways that even he doesn’t quite understand. He can identify the constellations up above, recalling their names clearly. 

To finally be able to chart out the course of both seas, the one above their heads and the one below their feet, fills him with joy he never thought he’d experience ever again.


	3. To Fall With The World At Your Feet

The smell of gunpowder still lingers in his nostrils and throat, only drowned out by the smell of blood as he takes in the scene before him. Jean Bart can’t hear anything, not right now with what has unfolded before his very eyes. Whatever sounds he should hear are absent, replaced by white noise and background murmurs.

A massacre. Of his crew, no less. Every single one of them dead except for himself.

It’s not the first time he has experienced death, nor is it the last. However…

These deaths have no real meaning. The lives of his crew have no worth in the eyes of those who took them, who pelted them full of holes and cut them down.

The only one whose life has a meaning, a _price_ , is his own.

Because he’s a captain.

But what good is that title when there’s no one else left?

They may not have been true friends, but they had been his responsibility. As their captain, he’s failed. Failed to keep their losses manageable, failed to keep them in line, failed to make sure that this wouldn’t happen.

He hardly puts up a fight when they force him to his knees and get that chained collar around his neck. If this is the price he has to pay for the massacre he could have prevented, then so be it. He will bear it. No matter what.

\---

The spotlights make his eyes burn, and he wishes he could cover his eyes instead of just squinting uselessly to alleviate some of it. The surge of excitement that goes through the crowd in the auction house once they realize who he is and what he’s capable of isn’t something he takes to heart.

Why should he, when they squabble over him like a bunch of children wanting the same toy as they place their bids on his life and body?

He doesn’t remember the price that’s paid for his freedom, but he remembers thinking that it was worth less than the price put on his head by the government. Whether that was due to the actual number or his pride doesn’t matter to him in the end.

The man who holds his life in his unmarred hands only offers a glance his way before he pays, a satisfied smile plaguing his already smug face. Truly, he has lived like no other; detached from all facets of humanity and left to become a monster. A cherished one at that.

Jean Bart almost wishes he could hate him.

And he learns to, in time. He learns to hate so well that it almost doesn’t feel like it.

From the moment he is asked to hunch down to their level, he buries it deep inside and lets it grow, slowly but surely. Where once grief and despair grew, a steady stream of animosity and loathing flows.

It’s as easy as breathing, after enough time.

\---

The worst time in his life, all things considered, has to be after the brand is burned into his skin.

Not because it burns worse than cannon fire or sword slashes, but because much like the collar around his neck, it’s an eternal reminder of the day where he couldn’t change the outcome of anything.

He is given no time to recover either, even though the simple act of breathing pulls at his charred skin like a musician plucks at their instrument; sharp and with precision.

Even so, when his chain is tugged, he heaves himself up and moves to stand. He tries not to breathe too deeply, using his hands for support to keep himself from falling even as he bends his knees.

He finds no humor in seeing Saint Roswald acknowledge his effort with a remark suited better for the pet his daughter has, and instead focuses on keeping himself steady as he follows their entourage.

He just needs to breathe, carefully so. His survival depends on it.

\---

No one minds his silence. That’s only natural considering his status these days, but in the space where he says nothing, he listens instead. He knows that those who own him consider him an animal, but even so they switch to the tongue everyone else is forbidden from speaking around him, leaving him to do nothing but learn.

Slowly but surely, a vocabulary is built. It takes time, and it’s painful to hear the word ‘human’ uttered like it’s the most revolting thing to say, but it’s _something_.

He doesn’t know if it’s genuine curiosity or spite that’s driving him to do this, but when he practices the words, slowly drawing out every syllable under his breath, he feels some kind of satisfaction.

\---

If there is one thing he’s certain of, it’s that he’s the only captain in the Roswald family collection to last more than a year. The latest addition after another death is a man named Devil Dias, and Jean Bart finds himself feeling sorry for him. After all, he still has people to live for. He has a family, and his crew is still alive.

Even so, despite the fact that he knows that it would be better if he keeps his distance, he just can’t. During the nights where they’re left to their own devices and everyone else (just two other captains, really) is asleep, he offers whatever warmth he can give, and although Devil Dias probably knows better, he still accepts.

Neither of them say it out loud, whatever bond there is between them too unstable to really be formally acknowledged. But that’s fine, he thinks. As long as they both understand that.

The day Dias tries to flee, Jean Bart does nothing. He cannot save him from the fate that awaits him, no matter how much he has tried to convince him. It’s not that he wishes for him to remain by his side, it’s that he wants him to live. However, in the wake of witnessing his friend get shot and trampled upon by their very own masters, he realizes that wishes are just as futile as dreams. The world simply doesn’t allow for either to come true for someone like him.

\---

“Would you like to come with me? Pirate captain Jean Bart.”

It’s not the question itself that takes him by surprise, not really. It’s the way his name sounds when it comes from the lips of someone else.  
He hasn’t heard it in years, and the only one who’s bothered to remember it all this time is himself.

He wants to hear it again.

The decision has already been made. From the moment his collar is gone, his life is in Law's hands. There's no other choice he could make anyhow, since there is nothing anchoring him to life. This is the first true choice he has had in years, and he has never felt so certain.  
He wants to follow this man, even if it leads to his death.

“As long as I'm free from the Celestial Dragons, I'll gladly have you as my captain.”

\---

Nightmares aren't exactly uncommon for him anymore, but ever since he's become a free man again they have gotten worse. Memories of Dias’ body lying on the ground mix together with the scene of his crew's final moments, the weight of that collar choking him even in his dreams.

He wakes up clawing at his throat, and the brand on his chest burns as if to remind him even more that what has happened is something that will always haunt him. He can never forget, even if he tries.

The submarine is docked above the surface of the water as a safety measure, and he's grateful to see the night sky with nothing stopping him. He's still getting used to his own freedom, and he finds himself almost slipping into the old habit of walking on all fours. The humiliation has long since worn off, but he knows it's not right.

“Can’t sleep either?”

The voice startles him, and he says nothing as he turns to face the source of it.

The sight of his new captain leaning against the railing of the submarine is unexpected, and it takes an almost embarrassingly long time before he actually says anything in response to the question.

“... Yes.”

There’s a pause between them before Law moves his hand up from where it’s resting over the railing, and he gestures for Jean to come over with the same enthusiasm as one would expect from a sloth. Even so, he gets the hint and walks over.

Neither of them say anything, instead staring out at the sea and up at the stars in the sky while a faint breeze plays with Jean’s hair, moving it gently to and fro. It’s not difficult for him to notice that Law isn’t as calm as he usually is, with the way he stares wistfully into the distance as if it’s personally wronged him somehow. There’s an underlying tension, in the way his body carries itself and in the set of his jaw.

“Do you… Want to talk about your dreams, captain?”

The question is out before he can stop it, and the only reason he doesn’t cringe is through years of schooling his expressions into a stone mask.

Law’s laughter takes him completely by surprise. It hangs in the air, every bit as sharp and bitter as the richest coffee but with none of the enjoyment. He’s not sure whether to regret asking the question or try to figure out why his captain finds it funny, but he gets no time to do either.

“Have I told you why I can’t stand flamingos?”

Jean turns his head and looks at him, then slowly shakes his head. Whatever it is that Law wishes to tell him, he will listen.

And listen he does, remaining by Law’s side as he tells him everything. No matter how his voice fluctuates and how many times he interrupts himself or pauses, Jean remains.

By the end of it, it looks like his captain is about to cry. But he doesn’t.

A moment passes, Jean’s hesitation eroding away while determination takes its place.

He takes a first step into Law’s personal space, leaving him free to back away and remove himself from the situation if he so wishes. When nothing happens, he carefully wraps his arms around him, not caring that their height difference is so staggering that he has to crouch in order for this to work.

“...Fighting alongside you was the first time in years I’d been allowed to stand straight in the presence of other people.”

The muted breath that leaves Law in response to his words is reassuring somehow. Such a reaction is normal, sensible even. He’s gone numb to the reality of how he’s spent a chunk of his life, so someone reacting appropriately horrified to it is… Eye-opening, he supposes.

Jean looks down at Law, noticing that he has his gaze on him. He blinks, watching as Law offers him a nod of encouragement, urging him to keep talking if he wants to.

The things he divulges are things he’s never told anyone before. The first time he ate what could only be considered food appropriate for animals, how he stopped noticing his back aching from all of his hunching, and the weight of the collar merely becoming another part of him, like one of his limbs. He even tells Law of the mind-numbing pain that still haunts his dreams in the form of Devil Dias and his old crew.

By the time he’s finished, they’re both seated on the deck, Law resting his head against his torso while he keeps one arm around him still.   
It’s… Calming. Peaceful.

It’s only when he looks down at his captain that he realizes he’s asleep, and he blinks.

He’s careful when he moves to stand, not wanting to wake him. Getting into the inner sanctums of the submarine is easier said than done when he’s this big, but he manages. He doesn’t knock Law into anything either, which is a relief.

Once he’s by the door to his room, he hesitates. Should he take Law back to his room, in hopes that he would stay asleep even with his company no longer there?

Jean lets out a soft sigh, and enters his room. The worst thing that can happen is that his captain brushes him off, and when he seems so relaxed he doesn’t want to disturb it any more than he already has.

That’s how he ends up dozing off with Law in his arms, dreams no longer plaguing him with memories that he’s had far too much time to think about already.


	4. Substitute

“Father!” Shalria calls from across the expansive garden littered with rose bushes. The only other plant is that of a massive oak tree, complete with a pristine white swing hanging down from one of the thickest branches. She's swinging back and forth on it, as a child like her would. With her birthright keeping her shielded from ever having to learn any of the lessons life teaches, Jean wonders how she’ll be once she’s a woman. 

Jean can pick out every detail of the structure, even from his spot under the roof of the porch where he’s been seated for the past hour or two. Roswald has decided that today he just wants his collection near to admire it, and thus they have all been made to stay within his line of sight. There’s only two other captains, and neither of them are as large as he is, not by a long shot. 

“Yes, Shalria?” Roswald asks from his seat, leaning back rather comfortably and with his sunglasses in place. With a drink in one hand and the other palm down on the arm rest, he looks like the perfect image of lazy luxury that everyone born human can only dream of. 

“I want to name one of the slaves!” 

That causes Roswald to sit upright, brow furrowed. It’s by no means a show of anger, but rather exasperation, mixed with confusion. Jean has learned to gather that much from a mere glance, by this point. 

“Why in heaven’s name would you want to  _ name _ one of them? Is it because you can’t buy one of your own yet?” he asks, as if that’s a reasonable assumption to make. 

“No! If I can name Chauncey, then I can name one of them too! It’s only fair!” Shalria cries, stopping with her swinging and stomping over to her father in a decidedly un-ladylike fashion. 

Jean exchanges a glance with the other captains, all of them wondering the same thing; How is it only fair? The thought process is a mystery to them, no one wanting to be forced to endure this kind of whim. No name is better than one better suited for a dog.

Roswald notices none of this, as per usual, and merely shakes his head. He finishes his drink, getting out of his seat before he holds out a hand to his daughter. 

“Very well, Shalria. But, you may only name one of them. Understood?”

Shalria brightens up at her father’s agreeance, and nods excitedly, as if she’s going to be looking at a line-up of dolls and choose one. It’s revolting. “Of course, father!”

Jean notices out of the corner of his eye that the other captains draw back, as if that would protect them from the possibility of being chosen. In contrast, he doesn’t move even an inch. 

Shalria walks back and forth in front of their little trio, holding her father’s hand while she stares intently at each of their faces in turn. Whatever she’s trying to find, it’s taking her a little bit.

“I wanna name that one!” she then suddenly yells, pointing to him with the glee of a child getting to pick a shiny new toy. Jean Bart has lost count of how many times he’s been looked at in such a manner, not just by her but also by her father. 

“What will you name him, then?” Roswald asks, letting go of her hand. 

“Hmmm… Rover!” 

With that name hanging in the air, Jean slowly turns his head and looks down at the pair, not saying a word. He hasn’t been spoken to, after all. No good will come if he speaks. 

“Rover it is.” Roswald sighs a little bit, and peers up at him through his sunglasses. 

“From now on, you will be referred to as Rover by my daughter and everyone else in this household, slaves and servants alike. Understood?” he then says, the nonchalance with which he speaks only furthering Jean’s apathy towards it all. 

“Understood.” he grumbles, and moves his gaze over to Shalria. Part of him idly wonders why he was picked, when he’s the largest and scariest in her father’s collection of captains. She hates ugly things, so why is he the one with a new name? 

“Rover, heel!” 

Oh. 

Of course. 

He should have realized, from the moment that ugly disgrace of a dog was mentioned.

Moving to stand, his hands move down to the ground and he walks forward, only needing to take a step or two before he is right at her side, towering over her like the giant man that he is.

Shalria grins when he's settled next to her, though she doesn't seem surprised that he does what he's told. Perhaps he's the first slave of her father's that has listened to her, but she has given plenty of orders to others. The difference is that she only expects him to behave and follow her commands like a dog, not give her whatever food she wants or clean up her messes. And when he's hardly said a word in the presence of this disgusting family, why would she assume him to be capable of servitude? 

“Rover, lay down.”

Even with that in mind, the detachment reasoning offers holds not even a candle to the raw burn of humiliation curling up in his stomach as he lays down on his side. He can feel the stares of the other captains, and he hates it. 

“Father, can I pet him?”

“Put on your gloves first. He's not as clean as Chauncey.”

The absurdity of the situation might have made him laugh, had he not been trying so hard to not feel anything in an attempt to not only appease the girl who holds the power of the world in her unmarred hands, but to endure it. 

But with the feeling of those hands carding through his hair registering in his mind, some small part of him is given pause. It's the first time in two years that someone else has touched him with intent that isn't to punish. 

“Father, do you think he would be cleaner if he was washed?” Shalria asks, still running her fingers through his mane. Her tone is the same as always, curiosity laced with boredom and the same expectancy of getting the thing she wants. 

“Perhaps, dear. Perhaps.” 

Something akin to dread settled in his ribcage, and although he remains completely still, nothing can keep the tension rising within him from being noticed.

“Father, I don’t think he’s going to like a bath. Should I get the servants to wash him?” 

“Yes, that would be perfect. Pets can’t clean themselves, after all.” 

\--- 

His clothes are cut off by servants who certainly would rather be doing anything but this, but none of them have any choices to make. It’s the only thing they have in common, aside from the collars around their necks. 

Steam from the running water drifts through the air, and he braces himself. He hasn’t felt this utterly exposed in ages, the discomfort coursing through him only worsening as he remembers that Roswald and Shalria had both demanded to be witness to this.

The brand on the side of his chest is completely healed by this point in time, but the burning it once caused haunts him as the first scalding hot shower of water passes over his body. His hands curl into fists, forcing himself to remain completely still. He will get used to the temperature in time, and he’s certain that if those assigned with washing him can be seen as failing at this task, they’ll be punished for it. So he moves not even an inch, despite the way his nerves flare up in protest against the unwanted heat. 

If he glances over to his left, he’ll see both of them standing there, watching with the same kind of detached curiousity one would watch a wild animal go about its day, he knows it. But, he still looks at them out of the corner of his eye, if only to attempt proving to himself that no matter how well he acts according to their whims, they will always remain the same. 

Just like how he will always remain the same. A disgraced captain with no crew to speak of, left to rot adorned with a collar around his neck and a brand marking his body. 

Maybe he should allow himself to accept the small graces he might get. Even if it means that he’ll have to act as an animal, not even close to the intelligence of mankind. 

It’s these thoughts that go through his mind while his body is meticulously washed, his skin no longer feeling the burn of the water. How desperate he’s become, for something that only barely resembles the gentle touch of someone else. 


End file.
